


Optimal Care Conditions

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [16]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Dentistry, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28727193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Tony Stark hated the dentist. When necessity forces his hand, Steve Rogers does what he can to help.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Optimal Care Conditions

**Author's Note:**

> Still at it! Whumptober carries on. Here's some classic, straight-up, _One Chance_ style whump.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and I'll see you in our next fic!
> 
> Your friend and copilot,  
> Captain Panda

No, there was no “reasonable explanation” for Tony’s hatred of dentistry. 

Even the name was unlikable. Dent, meaning _tooth_ , -istry, meaning _study of_. The study of teeth.

Awful.

It wasn’t entirely _dentistry’s_ fault. Tony disliked all strangers implicitly. He did not carry a fistful of trust in his back pocket, waiting to be dispensed, like Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers would hand over his entire wallet to a Trusting Man if asked. 

Not coincidentally, Steve had also been robbed blind four times. (Was it truly blind, Tony had to wonder, if Steve did it with such intention?)

No—Tony had a strong self-preservation instinct. (Perhaps that was the crux of the matter: when the ax fell, Tony leaped away, and Steve leaped _towards_. Idiot.) Tony did not like letting strangers hold his car keys, shake his hand, or sleep in his bed—in precisely that order. A stranger’s hands in proximity to his throat was an intimacy he detested. He barely let his harried, well-paid, steadfast general practitioner take his pulse. Too revealing.

Frankly, he’d been spoiled by Allen—patient, funny, intelligent Allen, who was one of the only strangers on the planet allowed to listen to his lungs. (It was invasive, he scorned Steve, who merely arched an eyebrow at that item on the list of _things I do not consent to in a medical setting_.) He would sooner let them take his _lifeforce_ than perform a single menial “ahh” on command. Humiliating.

He’d rather die, he told Steve, not ironically, then endure the humiliation of a _routine_ physical. A genial handshake, a grumbly admission that yes-he-still-had-the-metal-heart, a hearty chuckle over downhill skiing (a basic enough shared interest; one Tony had no issue revealing to a stranger), a ginger blood pressure cuff, a brief history of watchmaking, another hearty chuckle over the finer points of cattle wrangling, a cordial interlude to break out the stethoscope, and so on, in a whirlwind that lasted exactly nine minutes before Tony presented the doctor a small box of his favorite mints, subtracting one for himself.

 _That_ was how a physical should be, Tony triumphed. A gentleman’s affair. 

Yes, there was the indignity of the stethoscope, the discomfort of gloved hands, the humiliation of the tongue compressor. (Allen, wise man that he was, knew better than to press _that_ point unless Tony actively complained of a vocal dissonance, and even then, Allen was always gentlemanly about it, never giving into the urge to exclaim: _ha! Look at this stupid monkey! Letting me push on his tongue!_ )

One could perhaps begin to see Tony’s ire with the dentist, whose entire profession revolved around the tongue compressor. 

And if one could not, become acquainted with the fact that human adults had thirty-two immovable teeth wedged into an improbably small cavity that required routine maintenance. The four articulated limbs, the huge eyes, the visible skin, all of these made for simple diagnostics and solutions. The teeth, though—they were hard to access, impossible to see for oneself without mirrors, and _irreplaceable_. Break a nail, it grew back; tear the skin, it healed.

Chip a tooth—wallow.

There was a reason a gentleman like Allen didn’t end up in _dentistry_ , Tony thought grimly, looking in the mirror and prodding at his sore mouth. 

Even _Tony_ didn’t like to deal with it. His body was a machine and he maintained it, but there was nothing _thrilling_ about the mouth. The strength of the four articulated limbs, _that_ was remarkable, exciting. He loved to hit the gym and see what his body could _do_ , scaling ropes, thwacking a tennis ball across the court. The resilience of the organs, the dexterity of the skin—it all had its place. 

Teeth? Teeth were nightmarish. Even looking at them for an extended period made Tony vaguely uneasy.

He could understand why society needed—and needed to revere—those who became morticians. He, himself, gagged at the sight of dead bodies. He dreaded with a chill like actual illness confronting his own existentialism. Merely visiting a funeral home had the capacity to shut him in in his lab for the next three days, feverishly composing his soliloquys for future generations. 

No, the exact combination of traits required to produce a happy mortician did not exist in Tony Stark. Given that they were a societal necessity, Tony was glad _someone_ possessed the necessary combination of traits. It was a win-win: Tony Stark did not have to compete with future morticians for the prized title of morticians, and future morticians did not have to compete with _Tony Stark_.

Now, imagine _dentistry_. Tony could understand the headspace of men and women who buried their kin more clearly than he could understand the men and women that decided to dedicate their entire lives to dental maintenance.

Sadism? he wondered, buttoning his jacket for the fifth time. Was it a form of sadism? He often felt demolition workers took pleasure in their craft; maybe there was an obscure connection between the overactive imaginations of dentists and their loathsome enemies in the big blue chair, awaiting the old root canal treatment.

Or maybe it was masochism, Tony thought, unbuttoning his jacket for the sixth time. Maybe dentists felt a discerning desire to atone for earthly vices in the restoration of the meek to the mighty. Probably closer to ascetism than masochism, Tony reflected, grimly buttoning his jacket for the sixth time. Those poor souls.

But what did _their_ penance have to do with _him_? he triumphed, firmly removing his jacket for the seventh time. Surely, he insisted, taking a seat on the bench, they could get their fix _elsewhere_.

Why should _his_ pain occupy _their_ thoughts? his inner Socrates agreed.

That made _him_ the bearer of the most suffering, he thought morosely, which was far from ideal, as he was not a masochistic dentist.

He reached for his jacket. A gentle knock on the door thankfully interrupted him. He called back instinctively, “Room service?” and grimaced as his own witticism struck _pain_ across the side of his jaw. It was astonishing _how_ painful dental injuries were: a bad foot could be ignored, a sore stomach subdued, but a _toothache_. Oh, a toothache was a _revolution_ , unable to be suppressed without violent and bloody intervention.

He grimaced deeply.

Dentopolitico: the rule of the teeth.

“I’d rip it out myself, if I didn’t want a gaping hole in my jaw,” he informed Steve.

Steve did not look upset at this revelation. Steve had also been up for three days, trying to convince Tony to go to a doctor.

In Tony’s defense, Tony _had_ a doctor, and even kind, gentlemanly Allen would be disarmed at the state of his jaw after three days with a tooth hanging on for dear life. He couldn’t drink; eating wasn’t even an option. He was starving—quite literally—but given the choice between a rock and a hard place, he would gladly wait a little longer to see if he couldn’t just break the rock with his incredible will power. It had worked for him before.

“Today,” Steve impressed upon him.

“Today,” Tony echoed grimly, trying not to let the word linger in his mouth too long. As long as he spoke _carefully_ , he could get past the pain. He’d suffered far worse—he was a hard shell to crack. He was no servant to _dentopolitico_.

He would prevail. He would.

“I am stronger than this,” he told Steve.

“You are,” Steve agreed.

Tony suspected they weren’t on the same page. “I am stronger than _this_ ,” he repeated, pointing at the bruised-blue side of his jaw explanatorily.

Steve just looked at him solemnly.

Tony drew himself up to his full seated height. “I have decided—”

“No.”

That was the exasperating thing about Steve Rogers: he was a very stubborn idiot. Did he care that he’d had his wallet stolen four times? No, he did not. Because he was a very stubborn idiot who trusted people. 

“You don’t know what I’ve decided,” Tony grumbled, as loosely as he could manage. All this _talking_ was not helping. He was about seventy percent sure his mouth was actively bleeding, and it was, may the record reflect, all Steve “Idiot” Rogers’ fault.

“I’m gonna take a nap,” Tony announced. Normally, this would be cause for minor celebration.

Steve’s expression did not yield. “In the car, or after?” he prompted, faux-conversational.

“Now, actually,” Tony said. He stood. Mistake—Steve was noticeably bigger in every regard, and while seated, he could pretend. He could pretend. Hey, the Iron Man suit was taller, and it _could_ overpower Steve. “I can move you,” he said aloud, which made him wince, jaw throbbing.

Steve looked him over once. “I can take you.” He did not mean to the dentist.

Technically, he did. Tony sighed. It hurt. His mouth _hurt_ , his stomach was a bottomless pit, and he was, to make everything worse, thirsty. He was just thirsty. “I just want a drink,” he muttered.

“I know.” Steve didn’t touch him, didn’t rub his arms and encourage him to follow along with gentle promises. Tony was grateful. He didn’t like being _handled_ , no matter how well-meaning. Touch was great; handling, not so much. “Come with me,” Steve offered, gentle, easy. Like it was _his_ problem, and Tony was welcome to come along, and not the other way around.

It really wasn’t fair. Steve had no fear of the dentist. To be sure, Steve had perfect teeth, but he’d grown up in the twenties. Tony shuddered to imagine both the hygiene and mal-affects of dentistry in the 1920s. Maybe they were all gentlemanly back then, he grumbled privately—without all the fancy tools, how could they perform better dental maintenance than no maintenance at all?

Then he reflected briefly upon the popularity of _lobotomies_ back when, and decided maybe the modern era was good for one thing.

Improved-upon dentistry. Utter oxymoron that it was.

“I—don’t.” He let his jaw shut gently, holding onto his silence and his dignity with two closed fists. He knew there was absolutely no way around the tooth problem. 

He also knew he was lucky Steve wasn’t the type to physically drag him places he did not want to go, perhaps out of an unexpectedly wise premonition that it would permanently ruin his relationship with Tony, who did not appreciate being the humble mortal in the equation. Or maybe it was just sympathy from someone who had formerly _been_ in the “humble mortal” category. As it was, he doubted many people had cared enough about Steve Rogers to drag him places for his own good, and that cast an odd tinge over his own affair.

Steve wasn’t the first, or only, person to try to get him to get checked out, but he was the most persistent. Where others risked little and stepped back, Steve pressed on, insisting, insisting, insisting, long after Tony had resigned himself to a miserable spiral into starvation. Eventually, Tony knew, his own towering self-preservation instinct _would_ win out. Steve was effectively wasting his time in the interim, pressing Tony without pushing him, demanding without forcing. It was almost a game, like putting on a jacket seven times in a row, that would ultimately end in exasperated defeat.

Slowly, grimly, without a trace of satisfaction, Tony reached again for his jacket. “I’m driving,” he insisted, because it would give him a choice. A chance to back down.

Steve said, “Can you?”

Tony buttoned his jacket silently. “Thin ice,” he warned. He felt sick with his choice already, but that may have been the blood he had swallowed over the days.

“All right,” Steve said, and it was a small victory, but Tony would take it.

* * *

Tony had once had the integrity of his fingers threatened. He would never know if Raza truly meant to break them or was making a painful point. He suspected the latter—Raza needed his working hands for his own project—but his heart hadn’t known, in the moment, that no harm would befall them. He’d been absolutely sure that the pain would not stop until they _snapped_ —

When he became particularly anxious, he could still feel the overstretched guitar-string shearing pain. Sitting in the chair, hunched in Steve’s civilian shadow, he reached out wordlessly and gripped one of Steve’s hands as tightly as he could, pleading with his own mind to _let it go_. He wasn’t in the cave anymore, and Raza was dead. Nothing that happened could happen to him, stateside. He was safe. Nothing had even _happened_.

The threat lingered. His breath was tight, shallow, and Steve didn’t shake his hand loose, tell him to buck up. It was the strange dichotomy of Steve Rogers: at once, empathetic and stern, reminding them that they were an example to the world, while tolerating gestures of weakness like he expected them.

Steve wasn’t weak for anything, and that was probably the bitterest pill for Tony to swallow.

Nothing—not cold water, as he swam in unheated pools for leisure. Nor claustrophobic spaces even Tony skittered away from (gulping compulsively in animal terror, relying on blind information because he couldn’t be brave enough to _verify_ ). He didn’t jump at loud gunshots or flinch from heavy doors closing. He seemed as comfortable in pure darkness as incredible pandemonium, like he’d never met a real thing to be scared of and wasn’t about to start _now_.

It was deeply frustrating to share a space with someone as virtuous as Steve Rogers. It was also kind of comforting. The roof could not come down with him around; he would hold it up on his own shoulders if he had to. Tony slept better knowing Steve patrolled endlessly, snatching sleep on planes after missions. He kept up a strong front even Iron Man would be pressed to meet, and as far as Tony could tell, it was genuine.

It made his own weak points embarrassing, and he thought about retracting his hand but the only thing holding it together was Steve’s, crushing it back. He’d met enough future CEOs with bruising handshakes to appreciate the measured control of a _firm_ handshake. There was no threat there, only promise.

He would be slightly ashamed to admit that simply holding Cap’s hand nearly took away his trepidation entirely, as he sat in the little side room, awaiting his own penance.

* * *

He probably deserved this, Tony thought, slinking after the assistant like a kid completing a successful cookie jar caper. If he moved fast enough, he would not feel trapped—not by narrow hallways or open doors or the breathless sensation that he was not the only victim in the tomb. There were tiny windows to the outside world, and that made it worse, a tantalizing hint of every other place he could be, of the world he was missing, the life he was not living, because of one stupid mistake.

He did not balk like a stray on a chain at the sight of his own chair, but he stopped, completely, and could not be budged by the screaming voice in his own head alerting him that he was acting out of character. His gaze strayed to the tray, and he felt cold wash over his back. His hands shook at his side, loose. He had three layers on, but he needed his armor or he was nothing but another humble mortal awaiting his judgment day.

God, he didn’t even _believe_ in Almighties, and he would rather face that than _this_.

A warm hand settled on his back. He didn’t turn and bury himself in Steve Rogers’ arms, but it was an impulse that crossed his petrified mind, exactly like _dig your way out with a spoon_ crossed his hysterical mind, mere hours into his underground ordeal. He sucked in a breath that tasted like blood and forced his way into the room. 

To his delight-relief-dread, the space was just large enough to accommodate a single visitor chair, which he took, giving himself the corner.

Two walls at his back. Not good enough—not damned good enough, but an improvement. To his eternal embarrassment, he had no idea what Steve said to their guide-captor-assistant. He only knew it was probably English, and that kept him from hearing screams.

Gently, Steve shut the door behind himself. 

Instantly, Tony’s panic skittered out of him, gasping, gasping, splattering tiny droplets of blood on the floor. At least _his_ blood wasn’t valuable, only his brains. He was grateful for his wits as much as he cursed them, knowing that his captors would keep him alive forever minus one day so long as he had the wits to entertain them.

Not like the dozens of others who passed through those tunnels, never to see the light of day again. They must have had a lot of enemies, he thought, huddling desperately in his chair. He tried to cover his chest, blocking both arms across it, hugging himself, shaking hard.

This didn’t happen with _Allen_ , he had the wits to think, trying not to clench his jaw and failing, pain ricocheting from tooth to nail, tightening his grip. He tensed furiously when Steve’s shadow approached, afraid of him, afraid of _them_ , but when Steve’s jacket slipped around his shoulders, he actually froze.

A single word, any word, needed to happen, but he couldn’t shape them, couldn’t voice them even if he could shape them. He could only sit in frozen uncertainty, heart beat beginning to slow, the overwhelming smell of leather occluding the dreadful sterility of the cave. He slowly gripped fistfuls of coat between his fingers, his breathing steadier but reedier, on the verge of crying out in anguish. He wouldn’t—he wasn’t an animal, no matter how subject to instinctive, engrained whims—but he wanted to.

A nameless interval passed. He noticed Steve sitting on the blue chair with its crinkly white paper, a picture in comedy, like a clown in a courtroom, or maybe a judge in a clown car. There was something wrong with the image, something too sterile, too _modern_.

A painful, breathless little laugh bubbled out of Tony. “You look like a clown,” he told Steve without revealing the punchline. Steve didn’t snap at him, so he pressed on, “You expect _me_ to sit there?”

It felt more like himself, even if he felt battered, like the blood had a source other than a days’ old injury from a moment of stupid frivolity. After every test run, it shouldn’t be possible to self-injure himself, let alone grievously, but he surprised himself all the time. He was lucky he didn’t break his cheekbone, Steve had remarked. Tony had asked how it was _lucky_ to knock a tooth loose, all because he’d had a wrench in his mouth when he’d smashed his face into the ceiling. He hadn’t _meant_ to hit boost, he’d meant to _land_.

A mistake anyone could have made.

But a mistake only _he_ had made. And now he had to eat it, he thought grimly, shuffling upright. He let Steve’s coat fall behind him, and Steve traded places with him.

For a few minutes, the silence was loud. Tony resisted the urge to scramble at the walls. He kept his breathing as steady as he could make it, telling himself over and over that he _wasn’t_ in a cave and he _wasn’t_ in a dentist’s office. He was just in an innocent office building room, with the weirdest furniture he’d ever seen.

Perfectly sensible.

He looked at the little window, surprised it was even there, and nearly got lost in the sunshine. It really was a pretty day. Normally, he’d be down in the lab, or up in the air, flying across the continent in search of meaningful change. He was never still, not even for a minute, and it was almost mesmerizing to realize he was in the _present_ , exactly.

Then Steve Rogers asked him, “Sooner we do this, sooner it’s over.”

 _We_. It was quaint for him to call it a joint endeavor. Tony looked at him, formulating a scathing response, but he’d already gotten flecks of his own blood on the floor, and he was in the hotseat. He had a very small horse to stand on. He nodded in lieu of a verbal answer, and Steve stood, cracked the door open.

Tony tensed, expecting screams, but there was only quiet, the reflections of mechanical noises. It was almost like a lab, he thought, panic transmuting briefly into amusement. Just tools at work, fixing machines. He’d rather work on cars, crawling under the belly of the beast while good music filled his head, keeping him emphatically _present_ , but he could appreciate other mechanics, toiling away.

He almost missed his music, was about to complain to Steve that his lab was more fun, when a knock came on the door and he flinched. Bodily, embarrassingly hugely, but Steve didn’t roll his eyes, and Tony didn’t crawl under the table, and that was as close to a win-win as he could hope for. 

He was aware of not paying enough attention to the conversation that ensued, of declining to participate beyond a few eloquent handwaves near his jaw and his Steve, explanation both. He didn’t lean back against the chair, thank you, and frowned at the assistant for suggesting it. Shaking his head once emphatically, he forced himself to say, “I’m here under duress,” which earned an unfond look from Steve and a mildly confused one from the assistant.

Idiots. Tony grimaced as he realized he _would_ have to participate or walk out and repeat the procedure six-to-seven times, which appealed to him about as much as a root canal, a real procedure that real people were forced to undergo at the discretion of their clearly sadistic dentists. 

Tony asked, point-blank, if the assistant was a sadist, receiving another confused look in return.

Without hope, Tony leaned back in the chair. _Small children undergo this_ , he reminded himself bracingly. It was not merely a torture for the adults, and if the weakest among them could survive it—

The assistant began to lower the chair. 

With every quarter-inch, Tony found himself less present, more aware that he’d made a mistake, staring at the white light overhead. All external noise seemed irrelevant; he could hear voices speaking in Dari, the faint clarity of clattering equipment, modern tools in unskilled hands. 

There was an urgency and sluggishness behind every movement—shadows dragged across his vision, and then pain pierced his chest, deeper than the explosion, louder in his ears than anything he’d ever felt. It was a pain so extreme there was no equivalency; the only reprieve was shock, total but not complete, letting him wrench against his bindings and scream himself hoarse against the bright, blinding agony carving its way deeper into his chest.

In his memory, it went on forever. In reality, it took three hours.

He passed in and out of consciousness, never deep enough to escape the pain completely. He remembered how cold it was, and how strong the metallic taste to the air was, and how blinding the light overhead was, illuminating their work. Illuminating his body, a tableau of mortal agony, surviving only by a fluke, by a lucky stroke of the dice. No one would survive it twice.

 _He_ would not survive it twice.

He sucked in a breath that felt like his first in minutes, swallowing blood and slamming his eyes shut against the light. In the span of maybe ten seconds, ten minutes, surely not ten hours, he was there and back again, straining to place himself in space-time without erupting into violent hysteria. He knew he wasn’t back in the cave, even if every cell in his body denied it. His eyes could _lie_ , an insistent voice whispered.

A warm hand settled on his chest. He reached for it, unsure if he meant to hold it in place or rip it away. He held onto it long enough to wonder why it wasn’t retracted, and then, finally, with a start like a gunshot, he realized where he _was_.

Dentist.

He started to sit up, but the hand pushed down, and his mind fuzzed out. Obadiah Stane, gripping his arc reactor with a weird device that pulled it out of his chest, cord and all. He heard his name, once, twice, and then he focused in, not on Stane’s pitiless smile, but on Steve Rogers’ frown. “Tony?”

 _Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe_. He wheezed, and Steve let go, helping him up, carefully avoiding the blinding white light. His mouth hurt, his chest ached, and he knew without asking there was more wrong with him than memory, but the blood was distracting, and he felt painfully close to throwing up. _Don’t. Don’t. Don’t_.

It took him a while to process his forehead resting against Steve’s shoulder. He was more aware of the absence of blinding bright light, and then the soldier smell even Rhodey carried around, even without his uniform. It wasn’t gunpowder, _per se_ , wasn’t war or death or violence. It was . . . protection. _This is protection_.

Tony did not pull away, but he did say, “I got this.” It was _thank you, you can go now_ with as much dignity as he could muster. Graciously, Steve let go. Tony felt cast adrift, but gently, more like a bobber on a sea than a shipwrecked crewmate. He tried not to flinch from the light, focusing instead on being a bobber not far from safe harbor.

It was silly to lean on Steve’s mere presence so heavily, but there were nights, nightmarish evenings, where simply finding Steve sitting in the main room, quietly activating—drawing or reading or even typing—that could pull Tony from even the darkest of moods. He could not rely on other people for safety, yet he . . . _did._

 _I trusted people, once_ , he thought, almost wistfully. _Do you know what it got me?_

He opened his mouth gingerly. It still hurt a lot, and he didn’t like the idea of anyone’s hands near it, not a stranger’s nor a professional’s nor _anyone’s_ , but the pain would not improve on its own. He had to be trusting, just for a little bit, and he hated it. He would rather hand over his wallet and run than subject himself to it.

But all the money in the world could not fix what he, himself, had broken. Not unless he allowed it to be fixed.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Tony rasped, some time later.

Steve seemed to weigh a response. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Tony grimaced. He did not want to do the talking. Frankly, he had said his peace, done his due diligence, and Steve should leave him alone. “I’m not worth keeping,” he seethed. He meant to add _around_ , but the message resonated as it stood, abbreviated, bitter. He did not like what pain did to him. 

He might have liked painkillers even less. They were nothing but reminders that he was one small moment away from salvation, from sanctuary lurking in his own broken skin. Maybe it was silly to hold such a thing against him, but he had read his father’s files about the super-soldier serum; he knew Steve never had a choice. It felt shameful to give in, when others couldn’t—a weakness, an exploitable one. _Here are my limits._

He wasn’t in a world of _survival_ , he reminded himself forcefully, one hand hovering near his bruised face. 

Actually, he was free to go, but he couldn’t move. His legs were not working, shaky and weak. He just needed a moment. It was pathetic, really, worse still that it was witnessed. So, he lanced the pain: “I’m not scared of you.”

“I never said you were.”

Seething, he insisted, “I don’t _need_ you. I don’t need anyone. I didn’t—” He swallowed. At least the bleed was finally contained. His mouth still tasted like copper, metal. _We’re all forged in iron, Cap. All of us_. “I didn’t ask for this,” he whispered, and he meant to be so accusing, and somehow, it came out small.

Steve waited him out. There was nothing to say to it, nothing that Steve could not parry. _You think your life is hard, Stark?_

He grimaced, shutting one eye for a moment. Yinsen had beat him with the stick enough times to make the lesson stick. It was not fair that, of the two of them, he was the one who lived long enough to ruin his own life, over and over. 

It would be days before he could even eat proper food. The great Tony Stark—rendered weak by a fluke lab accident.

Slowly but not cautiously, he pushed himself upright. If he fell, he would deal with the consequence of his own actions. He might even deserve it, one last reminder that he was going to pay for every crime he had ever committed against humanity.

Every single one.

* * *

That Steve took him home was a generosity he did not deserve, nor even ask for. He would have shambled, accosted, through the streets if he had to. But with a gentle arm on his elbow, Steve steered him down the right path, let him struggle on his own with the door handle. He hadn’t slept in a while, and he wasn’t as coordinated as he should be, but he would have bit Steve’s head off for opening it for him. The guiding hand was granted the thinnest of permissions.

He was sure he was awake when he stepped into the car. And yet, between one moment and the next, he found himself in the underground parking garage. For a dismal second, he thought, I am alone, here. It was an eerie place, almost like a cave, despite the bright lighting, the well-marked spaces. It felt as liminal as it was—between spaces. Then his door opened, and Steve stepped forward, only to pause.

Tony unclicked the seatbelt, letting it retract on its own, frozen in place. The cool underground air was motivating, but he didn’t want to move. He wouldn’t have minded dropping off again, totally unaware, completely unentangled. 

His body was starving and sore and stiff. His sleep was blissful and deep and unencumbered. Between the two options, it really was no contest.

Again, he planted his hand and leveraged himself out of the car. Steve shut the door for him, then offered him a hand on the elbow. This time, Tony shrugged it off, shambling towards the elevator. He was weak with hunger, sick from the blood in his stomach, but he still had his pride. Just enough of it to get him to the elevator, to lean against the railing along the wall.

He did not _need_ Steve Rogers. He had made the whole journey entirely under his own power. Limped over to the nearest soft surface. Sat down. Collapsed onto one shoulder with a deep, raspy sigh. And shut his eyes—just for a moment.

* * *

Tony awoke in a compromising position.

No, nothing scandalous—if anything, his decency had been further preserved by the blanket draped around him. There were pillows stacked under his head that he hadn’t put there. Even his shoes had been removed.

Granting himself a few moments to process his vulnerable status, he listened to someone—oh, he knew it was Steve—lean back and forth with heavy, restful movements in a nearby rocking chair. Exactly like the old man he secretly was. Didn’t matter that he looked like a Greek _god_ ; he’d seen some stuff. He dressed the part, too, with his plaid shirts and high-waisted pants. Tony could _not_ be seen in public with him, for many reasons, but mostly his fashion sense.

Obviously, he sniffled, dragging himself upright. He was sore and cranky from his involuntary nap, but he refused to let it show as he rasped, “What the hell’re you doin’?”

Steve paused, then rocked forward and replied, “How do you feel?”

 _I asked you first_ , Tony thought. He scowled at Steve, which hurt his face a lot. Stupid Steve. Always causing problems. 

Leveraging himself to his feet was a mistake; Tony’s world tilted vertiginously, grayed out, and his knees gave way. But he didn’t hit the concrete floor with an emphatic _thump_ ; instead, he landed in Steve’s arms. It was a horribly embarrassing alternative. “Lemme down,” he grunted, intending to accept his original fate.

Steve misinterpreted him—Stupid Steve—and deposited him, gently and neatly, onto his little nesting pile. Oh, he was never going to live this down, he thought mournfully. He would have to find a way to get Steve drunk, just so he could make fun of his hungover self the next morning. That might work. That _might_ work, he braced himself, blinking mutely at Steve, who had waved a hand in front of his face.

Honestly. “I’m right here,” he enunciated, but half of the consonant sounds were not presently available to him, and it sounded more like _Imiear_. That Steve responded unintelligibly— _I hear you_ —almost made sense. “Get me a glass of water,” Tony rasped. _If you must. Knave_.

Steve didn’t hear the last part—probably because Tony did not verbalize it—but he did comply. Tony took the glass from him and sipped. The first sip was full of blood. He did not whimper, but he made a small, pathetic sound that he wanted struck from the record immediately. Steve offered consolingly, “I can bring you an icepack?”

Tony did not recall nodding. He recalled not sleeping or eating for three days, but the rest was a bit of a blur. He tried the water again, let out the same, not-whimpering-at-all sound at the taste, and sighed as he traded Steve one half-full glass of water for the wrapped icepack. He hissed as it burned straight through skin and teeth anyway, lifting it gingerly away. “Ice cream,” he enunciated. If he did not get food in his belly, he would not be able to function.

“Okay,” Steve responded, and he didn’t even ask what _flavor_ , the idiot, before passing Tony the glass—great, two hands, both occupied; this was why he didn’t like being _handed things_ —and vanished again. Tony moodily stared at his preoccupations, dropping the icepack to the floor in favor of holding the glass to his cheek, sighing in contentment. It helped. Not much—but a little.

He really needed to get some painkillers, but the thought of standing up a second time made him patient. Finally, Steve returned, holding a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Tony’s expression must have looked as woeful as he felt, because Steve said, “I can get you more, if you want.”

Tony shook his head, traded him the glass, and muttered, “ _Vanilla_.” Who ate plain vanilla ice cream? It was a lovely vanilla bean, fresh and flavorful, but with exotics like _butter pecan_ and _mint chocolate chip_ to choose from—he preferred to mix as many flavors as possible in a single bowl, for optimal sensory overload—he could only dock Steve points for lack of originality.

The first cold, tiny spoonful—he was hesitant to even bring it to his mouth, wondering what atrocities it might commit against his healing jaw—was heaven. He was not even a religious man, and he vowed that there was not an earthly sensation equivalent to that first bite of ice cream after three days dry and hurting. 

He sheared off another tiny, tiny bite, and tucked it into the side of his mouth that wasn’t all messed up, and closed his eyes in honest, radiant happiness.

He was slightly afraid he was going to cry—sleeplessness and pain tended to unmask him, taking away all the shields he so carefully put up to keep him from _experiencing_ things too much—but he managed to hold it together. Steve offered him the water, but he kept at his ice cream until it was well and truly soupy. Even then, he couldn’t help himself.

He loved it, so much that he told Steve, “Thank you,” like Steve had somehow facilitated his joy, and not the ice cream. The drink was too cold after, and he only touched the lip of the glass to his own mouth before deciding he didn’t like it.

“Gotta stay hydrated,” Steve warned, sounding more than a little _concerned_ , and Tony thought, _Hah! I stayed hydrated in the desert_.

Tony requested plainly, “Coffee,” but Steve said, with an unreasonable amount of reasonableness:

“Absolutely not.”

“Coffee,” Tony repeated, enunciating the word.

Steve shook his head. “No.”

Tony’s elation with the ice cream was swiftly fading into annoyance. “Fine,” he announced, although he was cold and shivery from the ice cream and the very last thing he wanted to do was get up and do work. Really, if Steve wasn’t so _insistent_ about him hydrating, then he wouldn’t be in this predicament, he thought, proud of himself for dancing around the issue so well.

As soon as he stood up, Steve parked him back on the couch. To be fair, his legs were not holding him up very well today, although he couldn’t tell if it was from the shock of treatment or the simple lack of proper care for one too many days. Either way, they simply would not hold him, and he watched in a mixture of honest curiosity and sleepy nonchalance as Steve actually _tucked him in_ , wrapping the blanket around him and affirming, “Decaf coffee.”

Tony heard _coffee_ and pulled the blanket tighter around himself to quell the shivery feeling inside him, even as _decaf_ set off alarm bells that needed to be heeded. It was not something to worry about immediately, anyway, and he was droopy-eyed with fatigue when, at _long_ last, Steve returned, cup in hand.

“Be careful,” he told Tony, who reached for the mug with a disgruntled, _I know how to drink coffee_ noise. “Don’t burn yourself,” Steve insisted. _I won’t_ , Tony insisted, sipping at it and promptly burning himself with a loud yelp. “ _Tony_.”

 _Coffee_ , Tony insisted silently, blowing on it— _ow_ —and then letting it sit between his cupped, shaky palms. He hated feeling shaky—hated everything about his predicament and especially Steve bearing witness to it. The perks of being alone were many and included never having to justify his less-than-perfect appearance to others. Knowing that Steve bore witness to his failure was almost as devastating as the failure itself.

He sipped at his coffee for a while, very careful not to burn himself again, and was working up a real appetite when Bruce walked in. Normally, it was cause for some celebration, but Tony was too busy managing his most recent sip of coffee to join in the immediate conversation. As a result, Bruce prodded _Steve_ for answers. The jerk—they were supposed to be friends! Tony was going to say so, at any moment, but then Bruce offered him painkillers, and he could have kissed the man on the mouth for his genius.

Instead, he took the pills and gulped them down _carefully_. He didn’t really expect much, but as the sluggish ache in his jaw receded, his will to stay awake drew out to sea. He was vaguely aware of requesting more coffee, but then he was out for the count, bruised face smushed against a pillow.

How utterly professional, some part of him reserved the judgment to say.

* * *

Hunger once more drew him from an otherwise perfect rest. Hunger—and _pain_. He moaned thinly, an involuntary sound, as the ache lanced from jaw to the back of his skull. A hand from outer space offered him an ice pack, and he took it without opening his eyes, pressing it gingerly to the more painful side of his face.

For a long time, he stayed like that, refusing to budge. Then he peered at Steve, who had brought the whole bottle, this time. Tony was about to triumph and ask for as much as he could haggle when Steve shook out just four pills. 

Steve did earn extra credit for curling an arm around Tony’s shoulders and leveraging him upright against more couch cushions before passing along the lukewarm glass of water. Tony took the pills without complaint, silently filling in the mental gap, _How long was I out?_

A while.

He didn’t mind, so much—he was too tired and woozy to care about anything beyond, and he looked pitifully up at Steve, who offered, “Ice cream?”

He nodded gingerly. Steve brought more ice cream. The law of diminishing returns stated it would not taste as good as the first bowl.

It tasted just as good.

 _Suck on that,_ Tony thought, holding the spoon in his mouth and contemplating how to convey his desires without coming across as _needy_. Up until the present, Steve’s work had all been purely voluntary servitude. Tony had no part in it—he simply made choices when offered and accepted them with a grace befitting a man of his station. But asking Steve to hand him the remote seemed like crossing a sort of line.

Getting it himself was probably not an option, though, so he released the spoon and asked carefully, “Don’t you watch TV?”

Steve said, “You don’t have a TV.”

With a deep sigh, Tony pointed at the nearest coffee table and the remote clearly stationed on it. “Try it,” he rasped.

Steve did, picking up the remote with the sort of gung-ho _what’s this doohickey do_ attitude that had carried him through stage one of using cell phones and microwaves and might just make him a modern man, yet. In the spirit of making him into a modern man—and not for anything resembling selfish reasons; _Tony_ would have chosen a more cerebral film, surely—he coached Steve, in halts and starts, on how to access his library, including his collection of animated films.

His favorite animated feature was _Wall-E_. He would never admit it—he was reasonably sure he would eat a bullet before he said aloud, _I do happen to like that_ Wall-E _movie_ —but he was quick to guide Steve through the sea of opportunities straight to the prize. There was just something so _delightful_ about it, so utterly inane and amusing, that he couldn’t help but let go of his own thoughts for a little while just to watch.

And yes, it was silly, and yes, it made him feel things, and yes, he wished he could explain it to Steve, who clearly could not appreciate a film of its caliber without certain critical foreknowledge. But Steve didn’t ask questions. Steve just—watched. He was oddly patient about it, given that he could be doing quite literally anything else in the world than watch a children’s movie.

Flummoxed but satisfied, Tony worked his way through a second bowl of vanilla ice cream—unbelievable; truly, the most wasted opportunity of his life, eating plain vanilla ice cream _twice_ —while Steve sat on a different couch and watched the movie. 

Tony thought about saying something cheeky, but his eyes were very heavy, and it was easier to rest his head on the pillows and maybe just shut his eyes for a few moments while Wall-E screeched at the top of his little robot lungs about an incoming spaceship.

Bless his heart, really.

* * *

And to think, Tony mused, some abundant time later, when his jaw felt cracked open for how sore it was, and evening had settled in—he was only half-talking about the robot.

Steve thankfully presented him with painkillers before taking other requests. Tony appreciated the lukewarm water to slug them down and wait, resisting the urge to twitch and writhe pathetically in place. It only half-worked—he still twisted into a half-pretzel in a desperate attempt to get away from the pain—and Steve noticed, squeezing his hand gently at first, then more strongly, reminding him that he was there.

Tony knew he should be more alarmed at how accommodating Steve was—everyone, absolutely everyone, had ulterior motives; the most altruistic people on Earth still enjoyed how generous and kind they were—but he couldn’t help but be totally absorbed, like a snake before the charmer. 

Steve helped him upright and got him moving again, sticking close by to ensure no catastrophic spills. He made chicken broth—Tony looked morosely at it for so long it was cool enough to eat by the time he attempted the first bite—and talked about old-timey movies, for some reason. Tony couldn’t recall if he asked about Steve’s opinion or if it was simply offered, but he sat slumped at the island and listened, anyway.

It was not altogether unpleasant.

* * *

Steve even chauffeured him to his room, pill bottle in hand. Tony expected him to wave goodbye at the door and part ways forever, but it _was_ Captain America, speaking, and he underestimated just how sincerely Steve . . . well, _cared_. 

Steve was not satisfied until Tony was, going so far as to helping him remove his jacket and button-down top and shimmy down his pants before replacing them with more comfortable lounge wear. 

He even adjusted the thermostat to Tony’s thin, barely-voiced suggestions. It heartened Tony in a way he could not adequately express, to have his simple requests be turned into reality without fuss or expectation.

At last, Steve turned down the bed so it would be easy for Tony to slide into it. Tony refused to be tucked in twice, but he did blink in genuine bewilderment as Steve sat on the bed next to him, sitting up against the headboard. 

In a slightly more conscious state, Tony may have argued the point; as it was, he simply sighed and, deciding to take something for himself rather than submitting purely to being acted on, he leaned over, curled an arm around a robust knee, and hugged Steve’s thigh. Steve cushioned it with a pillow, which was a tragedy, but Tony did fall asleep nearly immediately, so he might have had the right idea, after all.

He drifted in and out of a deep sleep, awakening long enough to whine for the painkillers before gratefully slinking back under the cover of darkness, almost before the last dream had faded. He rarely enjoyed sleep—nightmares were a constant companion in his home—but it seemed easy with Steve around. Thus, Tony took advantage of the opportunity, drowsing for long hours while Steve audibly turned the page of a substantial book, or, very, very occasionally brushing a hand over his shoulder.

Tony had no idea _why_ he did it, but it was comforting, and he did not question it. It seemed to ground the ache and pains in reality, taking away their mind-shattering intensity. Instead, it was all part of the process—a healing process he rarely succumbed to. Even after the Chitauri, he’d picked himself back up with a buoyancy that surprised even himself, plowing through the aftermath like it couldn’t touch him if he moved fast enough.

Maybe, he thought, in a moment of mournful clarity, this was simply the moment it all did catch up to him.

If so—he’d had nothing to fear. Steve was there, and that made it all almost easy.

* * *

“Let me take you to lunch,” Tony offered Steve, excited to break out of his soft-food-only mold.

Steve lowered his book and looked at Tony, weighing the offer. 

“Lot you haven’t seen in this city,” Tony enticed. “Lot I haven’t eaten.” He curved a hand over his belly, eager for his next culinary adventure. “C’mon. Where’s the harm?”

Steve shut his book slowly. “You sure you’re up to it?” he pressed, but Tony shrugged him off.

“If it doesn’t work, there’s always ice cream.” 

And they—well, they shared a smile. It was silly, really, but it reminded Tony of a snapshot moment, lying on the concrete and looking up into a face that seemed a lot younger than the stories would have him believing, radiant with joy. That pure joy was there and gone so quickly that he wasn’t sure it wasn’t a dream, but he was willing to bargain that it was real, to play the game, to see if he couldn’t—

Maybe, just _maybe_ , earn that smile again.

“I’d like that,” Steve said.

It wasn’t everything—his jaw was still weeks away from total recovery; their lives were still hectic, even around the margins—but Tony was proud to say it was a start, and a very welcome one.


End file.
